


Smoking

by RussianWitch



Series: Kinktober2018 [14]
Category: Justice League (2017)
Genre: Dom/sub, Human Furniture, Introspection, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Day 15 human furniture





	Smoking

**Author's Note:**

> not betaed

Clark grits his teeth to keep from vibrating with the urge to look up.

He isn't supposed to look up, isn't supposed to move, or think or _want_ for that matter.

It is harder than he expected.

The sharp, rich scent of Bruce's cigar tickles his nose.

Clark wants to look at him, the way Bruce sprawls on the big leather chair, still mostly buttoned up, only his rolled-up sleeves and slightly loosened tie giving away that he's off the clock, the thick cigar he's smoking while reading—something or other.

Every so often, the cigar appears in Clark's limited field of vision as the ash from the smoldering tip is tapped off into his cupped hands. The heated bits of it stings briefly, like bubbles from drinking ginger beer sting the tongue when drunk on a hot summer day.

The pain is secondary, a side effect of the exercise more than the point, just like his nakedness and Bruce's complete concentration on whatever the hell he's reading.

After all, who pays furniture any kind of attention?

He's a symbol to a lot of people, a /thing/ with ideas attached not a living breathing person who goes home at night who wants and needs and dreams.

With Bruce he's a person, he's allowed to be a person moody and messy, fragile on occasion and as human as he knows how to be. Bruce takes all of it in stride and, Clark suspects, enjoys the privilege now that he's mostly over the suspicion that Clark is out to take over the world.

To agree to be reduced to an object by Bruce had been hard.

He wants Bruce's attention, craves it sometimes to the point that he has to stay out of Gotham lest he's tempted to keep the Bat from his work.

To kneel at the man's side, precisely as Bruce has placed him, hearing and smelling the man, feeling his body heat, and be ignored...

Shouldn't be arousing in the least.

He feels stupid, silly—humiliated that his lover wants this.

Not to interact with him, not make love or even have sex.

Bruce wants Clark to kneel with his back straight, his hands cupped in front of his chest and his eyes down.

Bruce wants him as still as inhumanly possible.

Bruce wants to use him—but not to fuck.

More ash lands in his hands, black and grey fleck with the occasional ember, then Bruce is leaning over, Clark almost smiles thinking they are done, but Bruce only moves Clark's thumb wedging the cigar in between his fingers then gets out of his chair.

Clark tracks him around the room by sound, first to the book shelve, then the bar in the corner.

Ice cubes clatter in a glass as Bruce pours himself something to drink, vodka from the smell of it.

Glass in hand he moves to one of the glass walls flicks a switch and bright afternoon sunlight floods the room.

Clark flinches mentally, it's the wall facing the drive and by extension the far-off gates, it's also the wall that faces the chair Bruce has been sitting in, which means it and Clark are on full display for anyone with a telelens to see. Someone could be taking pictures that very moment, pictures that will be in all the tabloids by the next day, pictures what will not be able to show his face—but if the paparazzi wait long enough...

"Careful now," Bruce says, his hand warm and comforting on Clark's neck, plucking the cigar from between his fingers and the lighter from where it's been resting on top of Clark's head.

A cloud of pungent smoke envelops him again, and Bruce's fingers scratch through the short hairs on the back of Clark's neck. He runs his fingers through Clark's hair like one runs their fingers over a carpet feeling the thickness of the shag, or an old-fashioned couch upholstered in velveteen, the way one would run their hands over a piece of furniture while thinking.

Ash falls into his cupped hands, and Clark feels hot all over.

Arousal ambushing him from nowhere, because Bruce wants to use him this way and Clark—finds that wants to be used.

He wants to be useful in a way that Bruce will accept, and if that means being Bruce's ashtray, Clark is alright with it.

Something twists in his mind, and Clark's body becomes heavier. He feels like he's sinking into the floor, kneeling becomes a relief instead of an effort.

Next time Bruce taps ash off the cigar, Clark wants to thank him but holds his tongue because ashtrays don't talk.

Time slows, the world falls away, everything but Bruce relaxing and playing with the lighter disappears, Clark's full attention on the cigar.

His face is raised, Bruce's fingers moving along his jaw, pressing on Clark's chin until he opens his mouth and extinguishes the cigar on Clark's tongue. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing here


End file.
